II
AN OUNCE OF WHISKEY OR AN OUNCE OF BRAINS
The moment Ravant awoke to sanity at the hospital he demanded a drink of whiskey.
“The doctor has forbidden it,” said the nurse.
“Why?” shouted Ravant.
“Your head. He thinks it would take you much longer to get well—perhaps prevent your recovery altogether.”
“Call him!” Still in Ravant’s terrible voice. “I guess it’s my own head. And if I’d rather have an ounce of whiskey—more or less—than an ounce of brains—more or less—it’s my business and none of his.”
The little, frightened nurse did what he asked, and Ravant said to the doctor very much what he had said to the nurse. And the doctor answered him precisely what the nurse had answered.
“But,” he laughed in addition, “your head is certainly your own, and you are certainly sane enough to decide what you want done with it, though it is rather contrary to Dunglison’s ethics to let you. It doesn’t matter greatly either way, though. How much are you in the habit of taking?”
“All I can buy,” snarled Ravant.
The doctor laughed again and wrote a prescription for an ounce of whiskey.